John's Privilege
by CowMow
Summary: We lie there, panting, wiping our clammy foreheads, and looking at the other to see the vague left-over traces of absolute horror slowly leave our faces."I am so sorry, John," Sherlock suddenly says with a croaky voice. "It was a foolish experiment, to conduct on myself but so much more on you, my friend."It is all it takes for John to admit he is privileged.


A/N: Just a plotbunny that popped up when I was reading the Adventure of the Devil's Foot.

Warnings: None

Parings: None.

Beta: None, so point out any mistake you spot.

Set: Before Reichenbach, just some friendship.

I don't own anything, it's all Doyle's and Moffat's and Gatiss's. It was my plot bunny though...

Happy reading, and you are allowed to review :)

* * *

"John," Sherlock says.

I look up from my book as he calls my name. Sherlock sits on the sofa, book in his hand as well, looking intently at me.

"What is it, Sherlock?" I ask when he doesn't seem to continue.

Sherlock puts aside his book and steeples his fingers. "John, I have been thinking."

I can't help but smile. "Don't you always?"

"Of course I do, but isn't that the way people start conversations like this?"

That piques my curiosity. "What conversations?"

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes for just a small amount of time. "John," he says again, and again he doesn't continue.

I close my book and lay it in my lap, focusing on my strange-acting flat mate. "Yes, Sherlock?" I answer him, patiently.

"What happened… at the pool…" He sighs again. It is a deep breath he takes, and the exhale is a bit shivery.

"Yes…" I say, trying to encourage him.

"That was dangerous," he says, fixing his grey eyes on me again.

I nod, barely able to contain a grin at the awkward ways of phrasing my friend uses. "That is true."

"I-I…" Sherlock stops again, and I soften towards him. Moriarty and his threats at the pool formed a topic Sherlock never talked to me about. It had been three weeks ago, and then the woman came along and disappeared, and Christmas came and went and New Year's Eve came and went, and now we are sitting here.

"What do you want to tell me, Sherlock?" I ask.

"I feared for your life," he suddenly blurts, a hurt look in his eyes. No, not a hurt look, a _vulnerable_ look.

I smile.

"I know."

Sherlock looks genuinely surprised. "How?"

"Because of the way you looked when you saw me, covered in semtex. It was horror; not at the fact that I might be Moriarty, but simply about the presence of the semtex. I may not be as clever as you, dear friend, but I do have eyes."

"I know you do, don't be an idiot!" Sherlock indignantly snorts.

It is silent for a mo, and then I can't help but ask, "Why did you tell me you feared for my life just now, Sherlock?"

The dark-haired man looks up. "Well, I just wanted you to know."

I nod. I can understand that.

"Well," Sherlock says, "It was also when the Golem had you in his hands, ready to kill, I felt the same."

I nod again. I can understand that too. "I see, Sherlock."

"Do you? Because I don't!"

And again, I smile. He sounds like a frustrated child that doesn't understand the simple but necessary need of tying one's shoelaces.

"Don't smile like that, I am being serious. Can you help me?" Sherlock looks pleadingly at me, and how can I refuse?

"Of course. You care about me, as a friend, and I care about you. I worry about you too. The way you don't eat or sleep regularly or how you just seem to get in trouble with people all the time. It's perfectly normal to be scared of what could happen with the ones you love."

Sherlock's brow crinkles. "I don't _love_ you, John."

I don't smile, but just look at him when I say, "I believe you do. There are various kinds of love, Sherlock. Friendship, love of a sister, or love of a lover… it's all different."

Sherlock seems to get the idea, but says nonetheless, "But that is so confusing! It doesn't make sense."

I grin openly. "Welcome in the real world, Sherlock Holmes. May the odds be ever in your favour."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. "What was that?"

I toss him the book I was reading. "Read for yourself."

I get to my feet, my knee joints clicking as I stretch my legs. "Do you want a cuppa?"

…

…

"Sherlock, do you want some tea?" I ask my friend, who was mixing something green with something yellow.

He simply waves his hand, dismissing my offer.

I shrug and pick up my book again. I was almost finished, only three pages remained. Before I open my book though, I ask, "How is the case going? Do you have any clues about how it could have happened?"

"Hmmm?" Sherlock asks.

"Any progress?" I summarise for him.

"Ah, yes!" Sherlock snaps out of his concentration and looks at me. "Obviously Mr. Tregennis's brothers' madness and his sister's death have nothing to do with the Devil as the vicar claimed, as I don't believe that to be possible. I must be something else. I collected some of the dust from the lamp, and will try it now!" He stands and places some dust flecks in the old fashioned oil lamp.

I watch on, curious on what will happen. Sherlock lights the lamp and grins as it begins to smoke.

Suddenly, my head feels heavy and my mouth feels like worn leather. A freezing horror seizes me, making my hairs all stand on end.

I look with wide eyes at Sherlock, who appears to be in the same state of mind: white, rigid, and drawn with horror. My mind buzzes, and I can't move.

Suddenly, a muffled scream from Sherlock helps me to snap out of it, and my army training for crisis situations kicks in. I grab my friend by both his upper arms and drag him downstairs, rtying very hard not to break both our necks on the tumbling way down. Locked together, we burst through the front door, landing hard on the middle of the street.

We lie there, panting, wiping our clammy foreheads, and looking at the other to see the vague left-over traces of absolute horror slowly leave our faces.

"I am so sorry, John," Sherlock suddenly says with a croaky voice. "It was a foolish experiment, to conduct on myself but so much more on you, my friend."

I grin and can finally laugh; now all of that is suddenly over. "You know," I answer with some emotion, as I recall Sherlock's conversation of that one night not very long ago, "that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you."

We grin at each other and burst out in laughter.

We sit up straight, ignoring the weird looks we get from passers-by.

"It would be stupid to want to drive us crazy," Sherlock says while getting to his feet. "An observer who would think it through would certainly declare that we were mad already before we conducted this experiment. Come, let's get inside, I am sure the smoke will have cleared away. Shall I make some tea?"

He helps me to my feet and enters the house. I close the door behind me. Well, at least we have a clue about this strange case.

I bounce up the stairs. "That was amazing. How did you know?" But then I see my flat mate, almost vertical in his arm chair, his fingertips pressed together.

"Yes, I have to admit it was very exciting," he says.

I would have believed him, if only he had not said it with a yawn.

- The end.


End file.
